And the envelope that Novice Marina slipped from her palm to mine?

Truth be told, I never saw its contents, and unfortunately the letter no longer remains, or at least it has not surfaced from the bowels of the Soviet archives. I imagine Aleksandra ripped it up and flushed it, something along those lines, but it was most definitely from this Anna Vyrubova, the much assoiled friend. She was accused of many terrible things, but in the end of ends she was merely a simple, exuberant soul devoted to her friends, the sovereigns, and their well-being. True, she must have been a natural schemer, and an excellent one at that, otherwise how did she do it, how did she get all those letters to the imperial ones and all that money to the secret agents? Actually, it has never been clarified, for writing from the safety of Finland in 1923 all that Mademoiselle Vyrubova confessed was:

Even now, and at this distance from Russia, I cannot divulge the names of those brave and devoted ones who smuggled the letters and parcels to and from the house… and got them to me and to the small group of faithful men and women in St. Petersburg. The two chiefly concerned, a man and a woman, of course lived in constant peril of discovery and death.

Though I was never to read the smuggled letter, I did see its effects, and exuberant effects they were. Gathered around the tea table that afternoon, the Romanovs ate their slices of bread and drank their black tea and surreptitiously passed the note from father to mother to daughter to sister… and so on… each of them not glancing at the words, but quickly holding the envelope to his or her nose and drinking in its scent. A marvel it was to them, something like a drug, something like a beacon that led back to the brightness of the dear past. I, who had driven the Heir in his chaise into the room, saw it all, saw their faces light up with shock and pleasure.

“Here, Leonka,” Aleksei Nikolaevich whispered to me, handing me the envelope at the very end of the line, “smell this.”

I held the paper to my nose, deeply inhaled, and… and my head bloomed like a flower, so rich, so sweet that… that I couldn’t help but sneeze like a horse. They all burst into laughter, every member of the Imperial Family and those few of us who were left of their fifteen thousand servants.

“Boodtye z’dorovy, Leonka.” Be healthy, blessed Nikolai Aleksandrovich.

One by one the others mumbled a similar blessing, while I wiped my nose and quickly handed back the note to Aleksei, who tucked it hidden by his side there in the wheeling chair.

Day passed into evening, and supper was served at eight. After the meal, the Tsar read aloud to Botkin, while Aleksandra wrote furiously on a pad, and Tatyana, Olga, and Nyuta pretended to darn some undergarments, but really “arranged.” Eventually too Nikolai laid aside his book and took pen to paper writing not his diary, but a note, or more specifically a reply. Da, da. The following day when I carried out the reply to the third note I also carried out two replies to Mademoiselle Vyrubova’s letter. Sure, both the Tsar and Tsaritsa wrote back, notes that still exist by the way, for rather than destroying them, the sentimental cow carried them all the way out of Russia, whereupon they eventually made their way to the preserves of Yale University in America.

To his friend Anya, the Tsar wrote:

Thank you so much for your kind wishes, which we received only today. Our thoughts and prayers are always with you, poor suffering creature. Her Majesty read to us all your lines. Horrid to think all you had to go through. We are all right here. It is quite quiet. Pity we have not seen you in so very long. Kisses and blessings without end from your loving friend, N. Give my best love to your parents.

The Tsar’s reply, of course, took him some time to compose. Yes, he was the careful one. Everything in its place, including words on a page. The Empress, however, was all heart, all emotion, and her reply, written in English, came out in one long gush:

My Darling, My Dear Little Owl, I kiss you tenderly. You are in all our hearts. We pray for you and often talk of you. In God’s hands lie all things.

We received your letter, and I thank you from my heart. It was such a joy to hear from you. One has so much to say that one ends by saying nothing. I am unaccustomed to writing anything of consequence, just short letters or cards, nothing of consequence. Your perfume on the note quite overcame us. It went the round of our tea table, and we all saw you quite clearly before us. I have none of my “white rose” to scent this. Thanks for your own. The children and Father were so touched.

They say that life in the Crimea is dreadful now. Still Olga A. is happy with her little Tikhon whom she is nursing herself. They have no servants so she and N.A. look after everything. D., we hear, has died of cancer. The needlework you sent me so long ago was the only token we have received from any of our friends. Where is poor Catherine? We suffer so for all, and we pray for all of you. I read much and live in the past, which is so full of rich memories. I have full trust in a brighter future. He will never forsake those who love and trust in His infinite mercy, and when we least expect it He will send help, and will save our unhappy country. Patience, faith and truth. I won’t speak of what you have gone through. Forget it, with the old name you have thrown away. Now live again.

I am writing this in my bedroom. Jimmy is sleeping on my feet, makes them hot.

I keep myself occupied ceaselessly. I read “good books” a great deal, love the Bible, and from time to time read novels. I also sew, embroider, paint, with spectacles on because my eyes have become too weak to do without them. I am so sad because they are allowed no walks except behind the house and behind a high fence. Father is simply marvelous. Such meekness while all the time suffering intensely for the country. A real marvel. The others are all good and brave and uncomplaining, and Aleksei is an angel. Many things are very hard… our hearts are ready to burst at times. The children are healthy. I am so contented with their souls. I hope God will bless my lessons with Baby. The ground is rich, but is the seed ripe enough? I do try my utmost, for all my life lies in this.

I am knitting stockings for The Little One, like those I gave the wounded, do you remember? I make everything now. Father’s trousers are torn and darned, the girls’ underlinen in rags. Dreadful, is it not? I have grown quite gray. Anastasiya, to her despair, is now very fat, as Marie was, round and fat to the waist, with short legs. I do hope she will grow. Olga and Tatyana are both thin, but their hair grows beautifully.

I feel utter trust and faith that all will be well, that this is the worst, and that soon the sun will be shining brightly. But oh, the victims, and the innocent blood yet to be shed! Oh, God save Russia! That is the cry of one’s soul, morning, noon, and night. Only not that shameless peace. I feel so old, oh, so old, but I am still the mother of this country, and I suffer its pains as my own child’s pains, and I love it in spite of all its sins and horrors. No one can tear a child from its mother’s heart, and neither can you tear away one’s country, although Russia’s black ingratitude to the Emperor breaks my heart. Not that it is the whole country, though. God have mercy and save Russia.

I find myself writing in English, I don’t know why. Be sure to burn all these letters. It is better. I have kept nothing of the dear past. Just burn these letters, my love, as at any time your house may be searched again.